The Fall of the House of Shusher
by Jecca Meitahn
Summary: A parody of Edgar Allan Poe's Fall of the House of Usher, finally moved out of the nowdead Parodies and Misc section.


A parody of Edgar Allen Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher.

**The Fall of the House of Shusher **

It had been many years since I had received a letter from my friend Armand Shusher in Dog Patch, Louisiana. As I read it, I realized I had not returned to my home for many years, and suddenly longed for that strange land full of voodoo and the like. Armand was inviting me to visit his home. Images from my younger days filled my head--warm lazy evenings, crickets chirping in the tall grasses, swimming in the pond, and Armand. Of my youthful friends, Armand was the golden boy. Full of drive and ambition. Success was his only for the wanting.

As a self-employed writer I could easily arrange my schedule to suit my needs, so I booked a flight into Baton Rouge. I hoped the sporty coupe I rented would reflect my casual success and free spirit. Cruising along the highways, my thoughts drifted back to high school. Armand and I and two other pals had been inseparable. Where one of us went the other three followed. Mrs. Vexel: just the name brought a smile to my face. We had been the bane of her teaching years. She retired the year we graduated.

I wound down the back roads toward Dog Patch. Rural Louisiana hadn't seemed so isolated then. The local towns had a pulse, a vibrancy that was missing now. I missed the turnoff to Dog Patch and doubled back to find it. Narrow and rutted with neglect, the road had an ominous feeling about it.

Dog Patch had been all but abandoned. The grocery market was still there, but the windows were dusty and occluded. The gas station still had one working pump--I pulled in and filled my gas tank. Not seeing anyone at the station I left loose cash on the counter and got back in my car. The bank was boarded up. Mr. Shusher's bank had been a show piece at one time. The school yard was neglected.

I turned up the long driveway to the Shusher mansion and almost lost my transmission on a big rock. Even though I had to slow down, my excitement was growing. So what if I hadn't seen Armand in twenty years. We'd been best friends, and shared many secrets. Not that much could have changed in only two decades, right?

The crumbling gray stone mansion sat surrounded by a simmering bog. By all reckoning, it had no right to be standing! I remembered what a vision it had once been. Armand had kind of let things go. His business must keep him occupied. I parked my car on a fairly level square under the weeping willow tree. I wondered if Mrs. Vexel's Studebaker was still in the bog--her's wasn't the first to accidentally roll into it.

I picked my way across the bridge and pounded on the door. A servant quickly opened the door, saying "Shush, shush, you'll disturb the master," in a whispered voice. "I'm here to see Armand," I started. Again I was shushed with the same admonishment. "Armand is expecting me," I whispered. The servant nodded. "The master heard your car from the village. Walk this way." He quietly tiptoed across the heavily carpeted room. I shrugged, picked up my suitcase, and followed closely behind him.

He led me up the stairs to a heavy dark door. As the door silently swung open I was greeted by startling white bedding on the futon and bright yellow walls. The gauzy sheers hanging at the windows fluttered in a welcoming breeze. But what was that smell? Seated by the window in a stiff wicker chair was my friend. "Armand!" I cried joyously, as I flung my arms wide. Instead of rising to greet me, my friend clutched his hands to his ears, and began twitching convulsively. After a moment, he dropped his arms and looked at me. "Why, Armand, what is wrong?" I was silenced by the servant, who made a quick slashing motion at his throat with his hand. "Not so loud!" he exclaimed in a stage whisper. "He has very sensitive ears."

I blinked in amazement. When had that happened, I wondered. The Armand I remembered had been hard of hearing, from a childhood illness. Slowly Armand rose from his chair and shuffled toward me. "My friend. You came. Thank you so much," he whispered, with a sad smile. "Follow me." It was a command.

"Surely," he said as we walked down the hall, "you remember Hildegard, my beloved mastiff?"

"Of course. How could I forget? She went everywhere with us. You talked to her more than you did to me! Everyone loved Hildegard. I've never known a nicer dog."

"She's still with me, you know. That's why I have summoned you here. My poor dog is very old and I don't know how much longer she can last."

We paused outside another great door. Slowly Armand opened it. The room was very gloomy. Two sad red eyes blinked from the distant corner. It took me a moment to realize that the eyes belonged to Hildegard. "Here, my sweet girl," Armand called softly. I could hear the tears in his voice. The great hulk lifted itself from its rest and inched pitifully toward us. As she shuffled toward her master, Armand told me of her health concerns. "My poor old faithful friend. Her strong white teeth have long ago fallen out. I'm not sure how much she can still see. Remember her strong beautiful voice? It's become nothing more than a muted snuffle. And she has painful arthritis in her hips and spine. She can no longer handle walking down the stairs to go out. Never mind the puddles."

I was greatly saddened at the state the poor beast was in. "But why me, Armand?"

"You are my closest friend. I need you here to comfort me in Hildegard's final days. It's coming, you know."

I got the sense that he meant more than just Hildegard's death. I took in the state of my friend. His eyes, too, were strangely glowing red. His sallow cheeks were sunken pits. I noticed that he also moved with the stilted walk of the old and arthritic. Hildegard rubbed her great head against my leg. A small whimpered greeting told me that she remembered me. I felt deeply moved to pity by both Armand and his companion.

Over dinner that evening, Armand and I shared remembrances of the past. It was good to see his smile. The candlelight reflected in his eyes as we chuckled over the exploits of our youth. A strange thing happened, though. As I began to recount a story of Mrs. Vexel, a unearthly howling came from Hildegard's room. I dropped my fork, and Armand clapped his hands to his ears. When it had subsided, I looked questioningly at Armand. The look of despair in his eyes told me not to ask. Our evening ended quietly, and I retired to my room.

My room, much to my distaste, was dark and gloomy. However, unlike Armand's room, the furnishings were comfortable. After leafing through an old photo album I fell into a restless sleep. The crowing of a distant cockerel woke me at daybreak. Not wanting to disturb my host, I stayed in my room and pondered the entire situation. How strange that Armand referred to me as his closest friend, when we had not spoken for so long. Why was Hildegard still alive? I couldn't even remember her as a puppy. (Mrs. Vexel. . . why does she keep running through my thoughts?) This house is like a living tomb, I thought. It's so quiet--no television, no computer, no radio. Surely there must be a phone. And the living are barely alive.

Slowly, the days passed without much incidence. Armand and I enjoyed each other company, hushed as it may have been. Only occasionally did Hildegard make much clamor. Twice she howled, and such an unearthly howl it was, when I would begin a story about Mrs. Vexel. A strange coincidence perhaps?

On the fifth morning, an odd wind rustled the trees, and swirled down the great chimney. The old stone house gave a mighty shudder. Armand became wild-eyed and twitchy. Suddenly he jumped up and rushed up the stairs to Hildegard's room. I followed and heard his anguished whispers. "Hildegard. Oh, Hildegard." He cradled her great head in his lap. Her eyes were frozen in a lifeless stare. As he clutched her to his bosom, the great beast exhaled a rattling snort, and Armand collapsed with a shriek. The house shuddered again.

My eyes were drawn to the window by the motion of the old willow tree teetering in the wind. To my horror I noticed my car inching toward the bog. "Ai!" I ran down the steps two at a time, and out the door. The bridge was shaking but I ran across and over to my rental car. It couldn't slide into the bog. How would I pay for it? How would I get home? I wrenched open the door, jumped inside, and stepped on the brake. I sighed with relief as the car stopped its ominous slide toward the bog. But my relief quickly turned back to horror as I glanced up at the house. The walls were collapsing inward. Armand was inside, but I realized that I could not reach him. It was too late. The building shuddered once more. Again the unearthly howl pierced the air. Then, almost with a sigh, the house tumbled apart and sank into the mud. As I backed my car away from the opening maw I saw the rear bumper of an old Studebaker rise from the mire. The willow tree crashed to the ground blocking any further view. The house of Shusher had fallen.

-end

I know it's kind of silly, but I had fun writing it. Hope you liked it!

For those who were wondering, I know there was no teacher in the original. She was put in for my own amusement - making fun of my 5th and 8th grade English teacher, who I strongly disliked.

Jade A.


End file.
